


[Removed] Chapter 15: May

by Alecto



Series: Too narrow a space to live [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/F, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alecto/pseuds/Alecto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first glance, it’s just another missing person’s case. Except nothing is ever that simple for them.</p><p>
  <i>Was previously chapter 15 of Burden of Proof, preserved here for posterity.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	[Removed] Chapter 15: May

Squeezed between Sherlock and Mary on a small hospital bench with the hard plastic digging uncomfortably into his lower back didn't fit John's idea of a good night out. That was even before factoring in his broken arm and the nasty gash across Mary's leg. Sherlock contorted himself like a human pretzel in the next seat with his knees pulled to his chest and glared balefully at every hospital employee that crossed his line of sight. On his right was Mary with her right leg propped up on the next seat and her head pillowed against John's good shoulder.

It was a bustling night down at Royal London's A&E. Fifteen minutes ago, victims from a multi-car accident had been frantically wheeled past them. Across from them sat a young college-age couple. Judging from the frequency that the woman got up to use the washroom, she had a UTI and would probably be made to wait another hour or so before a doctor finally saw her. John also had two guesses about the man seated two rows away, alone, who was squirming and sitting right at the very edge of his seat.

"This waiting is intolerable!" Sherlock snapped and jumped to his feet. Everyone in the waiting room, staff included, turned at the noise.

John reached out with his good arm and tugged Sherlock's coattail. "Sit down," he hissed. "I'm not going to help you if they threaten to throw you out again."

His partner glared down at him with a level of disdain that John hadn't seen directed at him in a long while. "This is all your fault, John. If you had been less clumsy, we wouldn't need to be here."

"Clumsy?" John couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice. He was tired and his arm was broken and his back hurt like hell. "How the hell was I supposed to know the banister would collapse?"

"I told you that the house was structurally unsound.”

“In case it escaped your keen detective eyes, Mary was about to be thrown over. Was I supposed to just let her fall?”

“That became a given when you added an extra 14 stones into the fray."

John sputtered with indignation. Before he could stop himself, his eyes strayed south to where he was maybe getting a bit doughy around the middle. But 14 stones?! He opened his mouth to argue with the rather generous estimate.

But Sherlock interrupted him first, "My estimate errs on the conservative side, John. You've gained almost five pounds in the last two weeks."

"Bollocks, it can't have been more than two pounds." He looked over to Mary for support, but her eyes were cast skyward at the ceiling in a clear effort to steer clear of the conversation.

Traitor, John thought bitterly to himself.

Sherlock continued, "It's a common enough occurrence. I've gathered that domestic bliss has that effect on some people. Look at Molly, she regularly gains about three, four pounds a month into a steady relationship. Not that I mind either, John, the extra bulk is surprisingly satisfying when—"

The couple seated across from them stared wide-eyed and their jaws slightly agape. More than a few other patients and staff turned interested ears in their direction. Hell, given the volume at which Sherlock spoke, John was surprised that the whole hospital hadn't gathered to see what all the commotion was about.

"Dear Lord, we are not having this conversation in the middle of A&E." He turned his head and buried his face into Mary's hair. "Save me, Mary."

"Sorry, love," she reached back with one hand and patted his head. "This is the horse you hitched your wagon to."

He groaned unhappily.

"John, John, are you listening—"

"Ahem, Ms. Morstan, Mr. Watson—"

"No , Sherlock, I wish you would shut up—"

"The doctor will see you now."

Sherlock immediately zeroed in on the new target that had presented itself. He swooped down on the nurse helping Mary into a wheelchair. "Where's John's?"

As she was wheeled away, Mary patted his back and waved goodbye. "I'll see you in a bit." 

"My legs are working just fine." John snapped as the other nurse helped him to his feet. 

When Sherlock tried to follow them, John's nurse (she hadn't been here when John still worked this A&E years ago) stuck an arm out and barred his way. "Sir, you've done nothing but disturb the other patients. You'll have to wait out here until they're done." 

John expected Sherlock to get mad or outraged. Instead, he got that look in his eyes. John barely had time to wince before Sherlock launched into a string of deductions.

"Your toddler is sick at home with the chicken pox and you're minutes away from finishing with your shift. You want nothing more than to get home to her. Why don't we make it easier on both of us and drop this farce entirely?"

The nurse started, ambushed momentarily by surprise. Then she shook her head and repeated, "You'll have to wait here."

Sherlock scowled darkly.

"It's fine," John sighed and reached for the nurse's arm. "He can come along if he promises to be quiet." He raised a questioning eyebrow in his partner's direction.

The frown darkened, but Sherlock made no further remarks when they finally met with a doctor. There were several times where he twitched visibly as he suppressed some biting remark. He hovered nearby for the entirety of the examination. While it wasn't strictly required, John appreciated the support. Not that he would tell Sherlock that— it would just encourage him to be more overbearing.

"What exactly happened?" the doctor started.

John didn't lie when he told his story. He just omitted to mention the reason they were at a condemned house was to hunt down a vengeful spirit. 

"So why were you there?"

John shrugged, "It's Mary's hobby—photographing abandoned places."

The doctor let out a hearty laugh and clapped him proudly across his back. "Ah, yes, the things we do for our lasses."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Both the doctor and x-rays confirmed John's initial diagnosis: he had fractured his ulna. At least it was a clean and straightforward break, which helped make reduction a similarly straightforward process, though still painful even when numbed by painkillers. It still meant several months of his dominant arm mobilized inside a cast and then all the other inconveniences associated with a broken arm.

At least he could still shoot with his right hand.

Despite Sherlock's best effort to convince the doctor he would more than suffice, another nurse was called in to assist. She was the same nurse that had helped Mary before. She smiled reassuringly as she laid out the inner padding for his cast. The actual process of applying the plaster didn't take too long, but Sherlock glared at each additional layer as if they personally offended him. Then he started to get rude.

"Stop that," John commanded.

Sherlock withdrew to the corner of the exam room to sulk over his phone as they waited for the cast to fully set. Truth be told, John was grateful for the quiet. It had been a long night and the pain medication sapped away the last of his energy. He almost nodded off several times over the next half hour, each time awaken by the return of the nurse checking on the cast.

"How's Mary doing?" he asked near the end when she made satisfied noise following her check-in.

"Okay, you're just about done." then she winked. "Don't worry about your girlfriend. She got a few stitches and all she needs is a little—"

"Get on with it. We don't have all night." Sherlock surged out of his seat and swooped down on them like a giant bat.

"I'll be right back with a sling for your arm, and I'll bring your girlfriend over too," the nurse said with a sunny smile before she ducked out of the room. "She's been so worried about you."

As soon as the door shut, Sherlock crowded into his space. The movement jostled his broken arm and John bit back a hiss of pain. "Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"People," he hissed. "Everyone is so dreadfully stupid and unobservant."

"Well, maybe if you weren't being such an arse—you have been in prime form tonight." John said bitterly.

"The intimate nature of our relationship should be obvious. No, the very fact that everyone seems to mistake you and Mary as a couple means they must be blind."

"They used to make that same mistake about us. How is this any different?" John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock slowly straightened up and backed away.

"Or," John started slowly. "Is that why you're upset? Because you're jealous of Mary?"

"I am not jealous." The outraged expression on his face made John giggle a bit.

John shook his head and reach out to pull Sherlock back. "You're daft, you know that? But we never did talk about whether or not we'd tell other people about us."

"I do not require a public declaration. Going public would not be beneficial in our line of work." Sherlock maneuvered around him, carefully rested his chin on top of John's head, and wrapped both arms around his torso.

"But what about our friends? I mean, Mary knows, but what about Greg? Or Ms. Hudson?"

"If you tell Lestrade, soon all of the Met will know," Sherlock warned.

"Give Greg some credit."

Sherlock hummed.

John leaned back into his partner's embrace, lulled by the warmth and dozy from the pain pills. Yeah, Sherlock was probably right. This was probably not the time to be making these sorts of decisions. Gentle fingers nudged his chin up and to the side. John lazily complied, earning him a long and luxurious kiss with Sherlock. He reached back with his good hand and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair for a better grip.

A sudden startled gasp yanked John out of their little world together. He craned his neck and caught a glimpse of the nurse's slack-jawed expression just before she slammed the door shut again. From the other side, he heard Mary ask, "What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"You might not want to go in there," replied the nurse solemnly.

John sighed as he released Sherlock's hair. "You did that on purpose."

Sherlock smirked and pulled away.

-x-x-x-

"You don't need to hover. I'm. Fine." John spat out past gritted teeth.

It took most of his willpower, but Sherlock kept his eyes trained well above the puddle of spilled milk creeping slowly across the kitchen lino. John looked up, made a sour expression, and threw the towel he had been wiping up the spill with at Sherlock. He ducked and the towel landed with a wet thump somewhere behind him.

"Shut up and stop looking at me like that." John grumbled.

"Like what?"

John sighed and flapped his hands frantically in Sherlock's direction. "Like that! Why'd you tell Lestrade we weren't taking cases anyway?"

"Your injury is a liability."

"Yeah, but my arm's going to take months to heal. Do you plan on not working the entire time? Even if you don't go crazy within the first few days, I will!"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. The thought was too horrifying to contemplate. "Of course not, but it'll be in your best interest for the immediate future. A doctor like yourself must know that to overexert yourself now could lengthen your overall recovery time,"

John glared at his cast, glowing with hate. "I hate this stupid thing." The rest trailed off in a mumbled string of swears.

Sherlock couldn't agree more, but John was far less diligent about following a doctor's advice than he was giving it. At the rate he was going, they'd be back at the hospital well before the next scheduled check-up. It would require sacrifice on Sherlock's part, but a distraction was in order. "Let's watch one of those spy movies you're so keen on."

"James Bond, really? Last time, you said you sooner watch more Doctor Who first." John raised an incredulous eyebrow as he got to his feet. Still his spirit was noticeably lifted.

"I could go back to my liver slices instead." He started reaching for the fridge when John intercepted his hand.

"Fine! Fine! Don't complain to me afterwards."

John chose a recent movie with that new actor, which was released while Sherlock had been away. After popping the DVD into the player, they settled on opposite ends of the couch. Sherlock waited for his partner to move over. When John refused to, Sherlock resolutely swung both legs up and dumped his feet in John's lap. John rolled his eyes. Despite that, a small grin lingered on his face.

Less than halfway through  _Skyfall_ , John's phone started ringing. Sherlock peeked over John's shoulders as he took one look at the caller ID and sent the call to voicemail. He silenced his phone after the second call. But the third time that the screen lit up with Harriet's name, John juggled his mobile awkwardly into his right hand and shook his head when Sherlock reached for the remote.

"I'll be a mo. So pay attention, I'm going to quiz you afterwards," he warned before heading up the stairs to the other bedroom—not Sherlock's, where he'd been staying the past few nights.

By the time John returned to the living room, the credits started to roll. Sherlock was quietly startled by how quickly time flew by (he hadn't expected to empathize with the protagonist at all...). John hovered over the couch before perching down on the edge of the seat, fingering the keypad on his mobile.

“What has Harry done now?” Sherlock had at least three educated guesses.

“It’s Harry’s girlfriend, Jenny. She suddenly broke up with her.” John tiredly scrubbed his face with shaky hands, muffling the next part of his explanation slightly, “But now she’s gone missing on top of that.”

“She could be trying to gain some perspective and distance after the breakup.”

If Jenny was even the bit perceptive, she probably figured out that one of Harry’s triggers was failed relationships. One could hardly blame her for not wanting to watch her ex self-destruct  before her eyes. Or maybe she didn’t care? Too early to hypothesize, really.

“That’s exactly what the police think,” John was bitter and filled with worry, equal parts each for Harry and Jenny. “Except no one’s seen her since Tuesday afternoon—friends, coworkers, family—and she missed an important function for her volunteer work earlier today, which is completely unlike her.”

“What for?”

“She volunteers as a youth counselor for at-risk kids.”

Sherlock reached over for his own mobile and pulled up the train schedule to Birmingham. As he scanned the list of times, he snorted, “Of course, she does.” He looked up from the screen to find John watching him with a pinched expression. “I take it that Harriet is not handling this turn of events well.”

“No, she’s drinking again. I can tell. It’s probably the only reason she even called me. Damn it, she was doing so well with Jenny.”

With one arm still holding his mobile aloft, he slung the free one around John’s shoulder and pulled him down. John landed against Sherlock’s chest with a quiet unf—the quick exhalation tickled across his collarbone. Sherlock tilted the screen toward John and said, “There's a train to Birmingham in an hour. I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering our tickets online.”

John gradually relaxed against him. “Our tickets? But what about your self-imposed ban on case work?”

“This isn't just any case.”

“What? That’s it? You’re just going to agree to help without making a fuss or fighting me on this?” John’s words were pitched with incredulity.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because... well... it’s boring...”

That was always a possibility. And more often than not, the more interesting cases involved one or more bodies. Instead, Sherlock said as he ran a hand through John’s hair, “You asked for my help.”

“I didn’t,” John protested—his damnable pride getting the best of him as it did from time to time. Then he swallowed it back for his sister and her ex-girlfriend, buried his face in the side of Sherlock’s neck, and mumbled, “But thank you.”

-x-x-x-

Jennifer Warren was already missing for more than 50 hours by the time they reached Birmingham. After they first boarded the train, John hesitated for a brief moment, glanced at the seat next to Sherlock's, and finally took the one diagonally across from him—just like all the previous instances when they had taken the train together. They spent the three-hour train ride from London shrouded in uneasy silence and not meeting each other's gaze.

Which was just fine, Sherlock thought to himself, despite the small lump sitting in the back of his throat. It gave him time to go through the latest book he had borrowed from Mary's collection.

Unsurprisingly, Harry did not meet them at the station. Yet hoping against hope, John's shoulders still slumped after an initial survey of the platform. Sherlock placed a hand on his elbow and led him away to the taxi stand. They sat in the cab with their overnight bags in their laps and each turned to their own examination of the unfamiliar city around them. Before long, the tall buildings of Birmingham's city center gave way to Souhill's sleepy suburbs with lanes of well-manicured lawns and quaint two-story houses.

With each passing moment, Sherlock could feel brain cells shriveling from the sheer monotony and ennui of suburban living. The cab dropped them off in front of a house sitting at the end of a cul-de-sac. Harry's home was neither too big nor too small—large enough to suggest an above-average income but still modest lifestyle. The only flashy purchase was the BMW hybrid parked out on the open driveway. Everything else, from the paint to choices of lawn ornaments, screamed of banality.

Okay, maybe he was starting to regret taking this case.

John caught his eye and flashed him a small understanding smile. "I know, this place drove me up the walls for the brief period that I stayed here."

It made sense. After the army shipped him back, John would have been treated at the nearby Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Harry, no doubt swimming in guilt after leaving her wife, insisted that he stay with her while he went through his initial outpatient treatments. It was no wonder why John fled to London as soon as possible, even without the money saved up to live in the city for long.

John knocked twice on the front door. It took several minutes before Harry herself threw open the door and greeted them with stunned, owlish blinks.

"You're here," she croaked as she gripped the door with white knuckles. "What are you doing here?"

John frowned. "You didn't ask, but that's why you called, right? Because you wanted our help."

Perhaps it was possible that stubborn pride was a Watson family trait.

Red and haloed by dark circles not even her concealer could completely cover, Harry's eyes pointedly flickered down to John's broken arm and then over to Sherlock. She only stepped back to let them into the house after John cleared his throat. John made a point of wiping his feet on the welcome mat before entering, and Sherlock grudgingly followed his example.

"Harry, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my sister, Harry."

Sherlock let the flatmate bit slide and greeted her brusquely, "Harriet."

She pointed to the stairs, "You remember where the guestrooms are, John. I'll go make us some drinks."

John said firmly, "Tea, Harry." He took Sherlock's bag along with his own and vanished up to the second floor. Given his current condition, Sherlock probably should have offered to help. But they had done minimal packing before coming up to Birmingham, and John did accuse him of hovering just hours ago.

Now that they were alone together, Harry stared at him with unabashed interest. Sherlock returned the examination in full force, now taking in all the details that hadn't been apparent in the one photo of her that John still kept in his nightstand drawer.

"So you're really him," she began. "You're the great detective, Sherlock Holmes."

"And you're John's sister."

She smiled—all brittle and bitter. "Yeah, I'm sure he's told you tons about me."

"Almost nothing actually."

"Exactly," she turned and walked away.

Sherlock followed her into the kitchen, not quite done with his study of one of John's last living blood relatives. It was amazing how he recognized almost nothing of his John in this woman. She just seemed so unbearably normal. From her taste in clothing to she held herself, it was hard to imagine that she and John had come from the same parents and home environment. As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock could still recognize bits and pieces of himself in Mycroft—even with a seven-year age difference between them.

By the time John joined them in the kitchen, Harry had brewed up a pot of Lapsang Souchong and set out a plate of chocolate biscuits on the table. There was no denying the way his eyes lingered on the empty wine bottle sitting on the counter. As he sat, John gave him a pointed look meant to ask if he had been "behaving himself." To which Sherlock responded with a roll of his eyes.

"Tell us about Jennifer." The sooner they got the information they needed, the sooner they could get out of this brain-deadening place.

Harry wrung her hands nervously as she took a large gulp of air. "You have to understand, Jenny... she hasn't been right for weeks now."

Sherlock butted in, earning himself a glare from John. "You were afraid that she was cheating on you."

She nodded, neither surprised nor offended by his deduction. She was just miserable. "I tried following her several times, but I always lost her in the same place. One moment she's there and then she's not, it's as if she vanished into thin air. I tried to confront her about it, but she brushed me off each time. Then she came over on Sunday without calling first and she broke it off. I tried to get her to tell me why, but she just left the house without explaining."

"You two don't live together." Sherlock scanned the kitchen. Three days wasn't nearly enough time to erase all signs of co-habitation—especially with such a sudden breakup.

"Jenny has a flat of her own across town," John helpfully supplied.

"We talked about it though," Harry sniffled, eyes wet with unshed tears. "The possibility of her moving in after her lease was up later this year."

"I gather that the police have had no luck finding her."

Harry chewed on her lower lip, a gesture that was vaguely reminiscent of John. "No, they searched her flat earlier today and canvassed the neighbors. No one's seen her, and she hasn't been into work since last Friday," she swallowed before continuing. "I think I was the last one to see her in person before she disappeared."

Feeling increasingly agitated, Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against the tabletop. Harry wasn't going to give him any other useful information. She looked ready to blow over from a stiff breeze—having probably spent last night seeking comfort at the bottom of a bottle. The crook of his elbow itched in sympathy.

(Sobriety is a lifelong battle.)

Sherlock stood and pulled out his phone. Without looking up from the screen, he said, "I would like to see her flat for myself. You still have the spare key she gave you, yes?"

Harry nodded and shuffled out of the kitchen, but not before nearly running into a wall first. In response, John bit the inside of his cheek and a strained shadow was cast across his brow. She banged noisily around in the other room, before lumbered back in and headed straight for Sherlock. Pressing clammy palms to his hands, she cradled the key like it was a precious gem to be safeguarded. She stepped back just as abruptly and choked down a bitter laugh, "She never asked for it back after she dumped me. I had hoped... maybe... Please find her. Just make sure she's okay."

Sherlock nodded and pocketed the warm key. "I'll do my best."

-x-x-x-

Up close, Harry practically oozed shame and cheap wine from every pore. John checked over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock had left the house and wasn't just lurking somewhere in the shadow. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of giving his partner a glimpse into other parts of his life he was not ready to share yet.

Now caught between his desire to scold her and to comfort her, their previous estrangement continued to strain their fragile relationship in repair.

John still remembered Harry's first great bender. She went into school completely plastered at nine in the morning. Both of their parents had been called out of work to talk to the headmaster and take her home. It resulted in the biggest row their childhood household had ever seen. Harry would later confess to him privately that it was her girlfriend of two years, whom she dated in secret because the girl wasn't ready to come out of the closet, breaking up with her in favor of a boy that drove her to drink like that.

That incident forever cemented the link between Harry's love life and her alcohol dependency.

Still, he had hoped...

"Harry, you shouldn't be alone tonight," he ordered.

"What?"

"Call someone, a friend, your sponsor, don't sit at home by yourself tonight."

She laughed, "Too late, John. I'm already off the wagon. Leave me alone."

He grabbed one of her hands and squeezed tightly, forcing her to look him in the eye. "You can't keep doing this every time you hit a stumbling block. What would Jenny say if she saw you like this—"

Harry tore her hand away, raking her nails across his palm as she did. He winced and made no attempt to keep her.

"This isn't about me. I didn't ask you for your concern, so mind your own business. I asked you to help find Jenny, nothing else. Do your job!" She snarled.

He clenched his fist. The anger he now felt was a familiar sort, the one that came every time they tried to discuss her drinking habits. "Harry, I'm concer—-"

"I don't need it! And I don't need your goddamn approval!"

"John." They both jumped in surprise when Sherlock interrupted them. For some reason, John felt chastised as his partner's pale eyes flickered between them like a disapproving headmaster. "The cab is here, we should go."

Harry turned her back to them, angrily wrenching cabinets open and emptying their contents onto her counters.

"Harry—"

"Go away, John."

He squared his shoulders and snapped, "Fine. We'll call if we find anything." Then he stormed out of the house without looking back.

Another few minutes passed before Sherlock joined him in the back of the taxi. He handed the driver an address before closing the partition again. John tried to cross his arms, before a jolt of pain reminded him of his one useless arm. He settled for glaring out the window.

When they were nearly at their destination, Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and said, "You were unnecessarily confrontational."

John blinked, "I'm sorry?"

"That's where you went wrong with Harry.”

His jaw dropped. “Are you seriously taking her side?”

“Your accusations set her on the defensive. Her problems may seem insignificant, even asinine, to us. But to her, they’re very real and very painful.” Something about Sherlock’s almost quiet and thoughtful delivery made John pause. “You may think you’re being firm, but she perceives you as lecturing her—guilting her. She's already more disappointed with herself than you know."

He bristled and an argument readied to jump from the tip of his tongue as soon as his mouth opened. But Harry's clenched fists and her hunched shoulders with all the weight of the world resting on them popped into his head. All were quickly followed by the hundreds of little things he had seen but not properly observed. The urge to fight quickly fled him. Sherlock was right—it was all his own disappointment in Harry.

The silence dragged on for a little too long, uncomfortably itchy under his skin. "Why can't you be this empathic with the witnesses we talk to?" he joked weakly.

A expression of discomfort momentarily crossed Sherlock’s face, before smoothing out into a blank mask. He turned his head away. "The psychology of addiction is not so unique between individuals."

There remained large swatches of Sherlock's distant past that John did not know in full detail. Mycroft had previously and heavily hinted toward his partner's early twenties, though he never disclosed their full extent. John recalled something he first heard in his psych rotations and repeated in nearly every pamphlet on addiction he'd read since.

 _Addiction is a lifelong battle_ , he mentally recited as they pulled up in front of Jenny's building.

-x-x-x-

With the key slotted halfway in its hole, Sherlock froze.

Behind him, John asked, "What's wrong?"

He shushed his partner and pressed one ear against the door. He strained to hear through the wood, but it was the unmistakable sound of multiple people ransacking a room. "There are people inside."

John's hand instinctively reached into his waistband for his gun, which he wasn't currently carrying. "Sherlock, don't," he hissed.

Sherlock couldn't risk letting these intruders get away. They could be their first major lead on the missing woman. He twisted the key and wrenched the knob. In that millisecond between the door unlocking and opening, he heard the most curious sound—something akin to a huge flock of birds taking flight.

Though they were greeted with only an empty living room, John pulled him out of the doorway and pressed him against the hallway wall. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"They're already gone."

"What?"

He linked his fingers with John's and pulled him into the flat. The air in Jennifer Warren's flat was stale and tasted like ash on his tongue. The living room hadn't been tossed upside down, but signs of someone(s) rifling through Jennifer's belongings surrounded them.

"Stay here, I'm going to check the rest of the room." John grabbed a tall umbrella out of the stand by the door and threw him one last "stay put" glare before venturing further into the flat.

Yesterday's brief visit from the police and the more recent intruders left a plethora of footprints and handprints in the thin layer of dust that covered everything. He identified the two sets that belonged to the police detectives, crusted with soil and gravel from the lawn outside, originating from the doorway and into other rooms. The other two—three sets that began suddenly in the dead center of the room were immaculately clean imprints.

He bent down, nose almost pressed to the carpet, to get a closer look. A glimmer in the edge of his vision caught his attention. From under the television cabinet, he fished out a crucifix and a broken gold chain. Someone could have kicked it under the furniture without noticing, or it could have been thrown there when someone ripped the chain with force. He pocketed it for later.

John returned with the umbrella dangling loosely at his side. "There's no one here and the balcony door's locked. Are you sure someone was in here?"

"Absolutely, look at those prints there and the state of the room. Even the police would not be so incompetent to leave a complete mess."

John kneeled down to examine the prints in question. Then he swiped one finger across the hardwood floor and dusted his hands off on his trousers. He looked up at Sherlock and said, "Jenny hasn't been home for a while now."

"A passable deduction, there may be hope for you yet."

When John laughed softly and smiled, Sherlock was tempted to pulled him up and plant a kiss on his lips. Later, he told himself.

-x-x-x-

Other than Sherlock’s insistence that others besides the police had been there, Jenny’s flat offered little in the way of clues to her current whereabouts. They turned each room upside down and found nothing unusual except for a missing suitcase (according to Sherlock) and expired milk of almost three weeks in the refrigerator.

The sun had set by the time they exited Jenny’s building. Sherlock didn’t say anything on their way back to Harry’s. He sat in the cab with furrowed brows as John fidgeted with his cast, hating how his arm ached with a persistent and dull pain. When they pulled up, Sherlock bound out of the car and into the house, leaving John alone to fumble with paying the driver.

Upon entering the house, he found Sherlock interrogating Harry, red-eyed and slouched against the front hallway. "Has anything about Jennifer been different lately?"

Harry blinked rapidly, but her eyes retained a glazed look. "She's been distant. Secretive and jumpy. Some days, she seemed like an entirely different person. I figured she..."

“There’s more. What else?” Sherlock snapped impatiently.

“The last two weeks, she stopped going to Mass and saying grace before meals.”

"I don't suppose you've noticed the smell of rotten eggs lately? On Jennifer? Her flat? Or even here?"

"What? No. Why?" She asked in bewilderment.

Sherlock spun around and galloped up the stairs without another word—much less even a glance in John’s direction. With Sherlock gone, Harry stepped forward to meet John at the door with a hopeful expression. “Did you two find something?”

He shook his head and she deflated like a balloon. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have expected…” She trailed off and went quiet, eyes staring off into an unseen distance. “But what was that all about then?”

“You know, Sherlock. He’s always rushing ahead. Can’t be bothered to wait for the rest of us to catch up,” John muttered belligerently.

“Is that how that happened?” She pointed to his arm.

He shrugged. “Things got a bit hairy on a case.”

“Because he left you behind like he always does?” She staggered as she pushed off the wall. The signs were all there, the drunken sway of her hips paired with cutting, if not astute, accusations. Drinking always gave her a vicious tongue.

“Don’t start with me, Harry. Not now.”

The words slurred out of her mouth. “God should have made you straight cuz you have terrible taste in men. I still remember your first boyfriend—what was his name again?”

“Evan,” John answer and immediately suppressed a wince.

“Right, Evan. God, he was a fucking piece of work. But this one really takes the cake. He puts your life in danger, he lies to you by faking his death, runs off for a few years, and you just take him right back! Now look at you!”

“Harry, you’re not really in a position to pass judgment,” he snapped.

She glared at him through her disheveled bangs. “Oh, Johnny, you never did like hearing the truth. You can take your superiority and shove it up your sanctimonious ass. Or is it up his?” She barked out in laughter.

Unable to keep the disgust from his face, he shoved past her to climb the stairs. If he stayed with her any longer, they were just going to fight. As he reached the landing, she called from below.

“I’m going out!” The door slammed behind her, quickly followed by screeching tires backing out of the gravel driveway.

Pausing in front of the closed door to the guestroom, John took several deep breaths to gather himself. He sidestepped Sherlock’s discarded shoes on his way into the room. Within the mere minutes Sherlock had been in here, it already looked like a whirlwind had come through and upended their travel bags.

“What was that downstairs?” John scrubbed a hand down his tired face.

Sherlock whirled around and beamed. He tossed the laptop he had been holding onto the bed and declared, “This case may not be so boring after all. Now that Harriet is no longer hanging about, we can research in peace. And I need you to make use of your contacts and see if anything unusual has taken place in the area.”

"You think Jenny might be possessed by a demon." It was a conclusion that John had been hoping to avoid. Only Sherlock would be excited over the idea of going up against another demon. John, on the other hand, still remembered Charlie, Constance, and Crowley all too well.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out a gold chain and cross. "I found this in her flat. Do you recognize it?"

John moved closer to see. "Yeah, it's Jenny's."

"Personality changes, aversion to holy symbols and grounds: they do suggest demonic possession over other possibilities. But she could suffering from a crisis of faith, or she may be under genuine duress from a mundane third-party. I've asked Lestrade to liaison with a contact in the Midlands police to check Jennifer's financials, we'll have more data then. Until then, we should be at least consider the possibility that there may be other forces at play." Sherlock picked up the laptop and started typing again.

"If that's true, then Jenny could be running out of time. We should get back out there."

"Facts, John, we need more before we can proceed. And we can't discount the possibility that this is retaliation of some sort. You would never let me walk into a trap blindly," Sherlock admonished.

John didn't appreciate the idea that something might try to get to him through his sister. But it was always one of the many risks of being a hunter. “Then we should find Harry. She shouldn’t be on her own.”

“If Harriet was truly the target, they would have already made their move. No, it’s better if she’s out of the house tonight. It may come looking for us.”

“Jesus, that’s not exactly reassuring either,” John groaned. “We’ll take turns on guard tonight.” When he tried to leave the room, Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him back toward the bed.

"No, you need your pain medication and some rest. You've been in pain all afternoon. I have everything under control."

“Sherlock, you don't really expect me to still be able to sleep after what you just said?”

“Fine, be stubborn. But call your dispatcher, I want to know everything she knows.”

-x-x-x-

No bloodthirsty monsters came for them in the night. Harry stumbled through the door at about half past seven, and John made her drink some holy water under the guise of staying hydrated. Thankfully, no black eyes or hissing steam there either.

They deposited Harry in her bed to sleep off her hangover and set out to find Jenny again. The morning was spent poking around her brother’s flat and talking to the people at her volunteer organization. By the time they got to her office, the work day was nearly over. Her co-workers, other insurance salespeople, endured the questioning with long suffering and impatience. On multiple occasions, John bit his tongue to keep his comments to himself. Sherlock was already capable of being rude enough for the both of them.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted Sherlock wandering away from his current interview to answer his phone. The older woman he’d left behind called after him a few times before huffing indignantly, grabbing her bag, and marching out of the office.

“Thank you for your time,” John said to his interviewee, a young man in his late twenties who had enthusiastically relayed all the office gossip from the last year. He walked away faster when the other man opened his mouth to say more.

Everyone they’d talked to so far shared similar stories: Jennifer didn’t seem much like herself lately. Though everyone seemed to have their own guesses as to why.

He caught up with Sherlock in the back of the office just as he rung off. “Did you find something new?”

“Someone called in a tip to the police earlier this morning. They saw someone matching Jennifer’s description in downtown Birmingham. CCTV footage was able to confirm the sighting, but they haven’t been able to find her. She’s still in the city, John.”

“Let’s go then.”

“We need to purchase some supplies first, just in case.”

John nodded.

The clerk at the hardware store eyed them suspiciously upon ringing up their purchases. John tried to smile reassuringly as Sherlock packed the cans of spraypaint, long lengths of rope, and a gallon jug of water into a sturdy hiking pack.

“I swear we’re not serial killers,” John joked.

The clerk remained unamused, giving them the hairy eyeball all the way to the door. John walked quickly when exiting the shop. They caught another cab further down the street and headed toward where she was spotted earlier.

It was not what people would call the "good" part of town. Long stretches of the neighborhood were disused storefronts and buildings that had seen better days nearly a decade ago. John had become depressingly familiar with scenery like this through the course of hunting and traveling. Years of economic recession and tightening austerity measures had made them staples in cities all across England.

They didn't have the benefit of Sherlock's homeless network here. The local population was far too suspicious of them. It made bribing them too much an impracticality. But Sherlock still managed to get more than enough information from their reticence, narrowing their search to an abandoned building at the edge of the neighborhood. An investigation of its perimeter revealed no easy entrance, requiring that they make their own. The wood over one of the windows was rotten and gave with one hard push.

Sherlock clambered in first, like an overly eager grammar school child, with long legs easily clearing over the threshold. John planted one foot on the sill and reached for the wall for support. He hadn't expected Sherlock to reappear on the other side and offer him a gloved hand. A touch of warmth flooded his body as he took the offered hand and climbed in.

Without the dimming late afternoon light from outside, darkness cloaked the interior of the building. Even if they could find a light switch, electricity must have been cut off ages ago. Somewhere in the dark, Sherlock made a noise of discovery. John brought a hand to shield his eyes when light suddenly flooded the room.

The first thing that he noticed was how all the debris piled up against the wall, leaving the floor mostly cleared. A clean-looking sofa sat in the middle of the room paired with an only minorly banged-up coffee table and the camping lantern Sherlock had turned on.

Almost homey even.

Less welcoming were the red symbol-ridden walls. One in particular caught his attention. John grimaced as he ran one hand lightly across the rune—tacky to touch and unevenly applied. He turned to Sherlock and said, “It’s blood.”

Sherlock dropped the hiking pack and moved in for a closer inspection until his nose almost pressed up against the rune. “Based on viscosity, approximately two days old. Broad and confident strokes, not injured either. I’ll need lab equipment before I can determine if it’s human blood or not though.” From the depths of his pockets, Sherlock retrieved a small vial and scraped a sample off the wall. "These symbols, have you ever seen them before?"

John shook his head. "No, never." He snapped several photos of the walls with his phone and sent them to Mary. With any luck, she’d be able to provide them with some answers. Supernatural elements always accelerated the timetable for a rescue attempt—and rarely in anyone’s favor. They’d already hit the ground running, now they needed to speed up even more.

"We should go ahead and set up that trap though."

John reached down for their pack, but froze when he heard what Sherlock said next, "No need, John. It seems we'll be able to get all the answers we need straight from the horse's mouth."

The expression on Sherlock's face was perfectly blank, which meant he felt anything but, and his eyes fixed on a point over John's left shoulder. John turned ever so slowly and swore to himself that he would never leave the flat unarmed again.

Seeing Jenny, unharmed but somehow unfamiliar too, standing less than five feet away... Relief was not the first thing he felt. Some noise should have alerted them to any new arrivals, and judging by Sherlock's reaction, she probably hadn't entered the building by conventional means.

John knew of only one creature capable of teleporting.

Even though they didn’t touch, Sherlock’s presence stood almost like a solid weight against John's back. John drew what comfort he could. They were caught off-guard before they could make the adequate preparations, except for the flask of holy water he always carried as precaution. Any second now, Jenny's eyes would turn pitch black, and he and Sherlock would find themselves pinned under a collapsed wall. At least if Mary didn't hear from them in the next day or so, she would come up and finish the job. Small comforts and all that.

Yet Jenny remained prenaturally still as she stared at them with an unblinking gaze. After a few seconds, she narrowed her eyes and declared, "You're Harriet Watson's brother, John Watson. You have brought unwanted guests with you."

He could feel Sherlock tense as the air filled with the sound of ruffling feathers. Two more figures, a teenage boy and a woman, appeared behind her and barred the way to the exit.

"Sabriel," the woman tilted her head and greeted Jenny. "We've come to bring you back to the front."

"I refuse," Jenny backed away from them.

The boy matched paces with her and drew a gladius blade from inside his jacket (John's seen something similar before...). "You don't get to do that."

"I thought we were supposed to be fighting for our free will. Shouldn't I have the freedom to make that choice for myself?"

"Oh, dear Sabriel, you know it's not that simple. If it's not us, Raphael's people will come looking for you. We have to deny them every advantage we can. Now stop being obstinate. It's time to go home." The woman extended a hand forward.

Jenny's face twisted in an uncomfortable show of half-formed emotions—the first time her calm composure shattered completely. "No."

John couldn't stay quiet any longer. He had promised Harry to bring Jenny back safe and sound. She was right in front of him and he wasn't going to let her slip away. He took several quick steps and planted himself between her and the two strangers. "You heard her. She doesn't want to go anywhere with you."

The woman gave him only the briefest of glances, full of derision and disinterest, before returning her full attention to Jenny. "Don't tell me you're going to let a mortal fight your battles. I would have never thought you'd sink so low."

"Leave now, John. This does not concern you," Jenny said softly.

"Like hell, do you have any idea what you've done to Harry?"

"I regret hurting Harriet, but it was necessary. Please tell her that Jennifer is sorry." Jenny stepped around him, the camp light casting an ominous shine along the sword that suddenly appeared in her hand. "I don't want to hurt you either, Lirael. But if you won't give me any choice about it..."

"Last chance to leave, mortals, our quarrel is not with you. You've even done us a service by showing us the way to Sabriel. I suggest you take it." The other woman, Lirael, said as she continued to lock eyes with Jenny.

Before John could reply, Jenny charged forward and the arc of her sword flashed like lightning in the dim room. The boy jumped in front of Lirael and blocked the attack. The blades momentarily ground against each other before both combatants moved back and circled each other. Like an emperor lording over two gladiators, Lirael was content to stand back and observe the going-ons.

"We have to do something," he hissed at his partner. "They're going to kill each other at this rate."

"I do believe that's their goal."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock wasn't watching the fight, which had evolved into a protracted series of aborted thrusts and circling. He was busy contemplating the bloody red symbol on the wall with furrowed brows and bright eyes.

"What is it?" John asked.

One moment, the space in front of them was empty and in the next, stood Lirael. Her grim countenance managed to be as threatening as any weapon. "I know what you're thinking, mortal. You have no chance of succeeding. You have no idea whom you are going up against."

"That is where you underestimate me." Sherlock weaved around her and made a break for the wall.

Lirael moved simultaneously, as if she already knew the path of Sherlock's resistance. But John, who was equally well-versed with Sherlock's tactics after extended experience, was there to meet her with a fist and a kick. Both missed her entirely as she jumped back. Instead, as he prepared for a second attack, John found himself suddenly facing down the boy with his sword and bared teeth.

"Stay away from the Commander!"

"John!"

Every instinct in his body screamed for him to dodge. But as the boy's shining sword lashed out, he already knew that he wasn't fast enough to beat whatever supernatural speed his opponent possessed. There was nothing else to lose by taking his eyes off his impending doom to look over at Sherlock.

Then the most curious sensation occurred. A wind from his back passed through his body and knocked the boy back. John's entire body tingled with electricity (raw power like what a thousand suns must feel like) that tore the breath from his lungs. The wind—the glow coalesced into Jenny as she brought the boy to the floor and stabbed her sword down through his sternum.

The bright light in the boy's eyes went supernova, consuming the room in a hot burning white. John had to close his eyes and shield them with his hands. Spots were still dancing in his vision when the light died. On the floor was the boy's body framed by a pair of burnt wings that spanned the length of the room.

Jenny and Lirael stood toe-to-toe in the aftermath. Not a muscle twitched on either of them as they held gazes.

"Do you really want to fight me, Lirael? Close combat never was your strong suit." Jenny said.

Lirael took one last look at her vanquished minion and vanished.

Sherlock descended on him with hands everywhere and panic in his voice. "John, John, are you hurt?"

Still in a daze, John replied, "I'm fine."

Jenny took them each by the shoulder. "We should go before she brings reinforcements."

The world dropped out from under their feet as they were sent hurtling through the air.

-x-x-x-

At the other end of whatever that was, John greedily inhaled large gulps of the cool night air. He managed to calm the nausea before his stomach staged a full-on rebellion. Sherlock, on the other hand, had no such success. His partner stumbled several steps away, bent over, and emptied his dinner over the gravel.

He followed and rubbed soothingly against Sherlock's back. They were back in London, on a rooftop just across the river overlooking the Eye. The sky was tinted with the velvet purple of early evening.

"I apologize for that," Jenny said from her perch by the edge of the rooftop.

Sherlock spat, straightened up, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. With the other hand, he reached out to clasp John's hand and squeezed.

"A warning would be appreciated next time," John snapped. "Who were those people? As a matter of fact, what are you? Is Harry in any danger?"

Jenny raised both empty hands up in the air as a gesture of peace. "Be not afraid, I do not intend to harm either you or your sister. My name is Sabriel and I am an angel."

Of all the possible answers John had expected, a bloody angel wasn’t one of them. “An angel,” he repeated slowly.

She nodded.

“Okay, you have got to be pulling my leg.” He said after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock, on the other hand, studied Jenny with a suspiciously bright gleam in his eyes. Now was not the time to intrigued by the new and unexplained! John squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, but it did nothing to relieve the pressure building in his temples.

"It's true," she insisted without changing her expression. "I am a servant of the Lord."

John's mind raced as he began to form arguments, but then he remembered the burnt imprint of wings against concrete and cleansing light. If angels did exist, would this not be an instance that would fit the bill?

She surged forward suddenly and grabbed his broken arm. John stumbled back and only her vice grip kept him from falling back on his ass. With one hand pressed firmly over his forearm, she looked up straight into his eyes and lit up like a supernova. John braced himself.

Yet he didn't burn. Her light swelled and spilled out, caressing his heart briefly before settling in his arm. There were no words. No earthly words that truly encapsulated the bright and infinite and just everything pouring into him. The light quickly faded, and John blinked back tears and the afterimage of wings.

"Now do you believe what I am telling you?" she backed away and asked.

He looked down and saw his arm was no longer in a cast or a sling. Stunned and awed, he flexed his left arm—now whole and mended. Even before Sherlock reached out to confirm his suspicions, John knew she had healed him. 

But something else still bothered John. "What about Jenny? Was she ever real to begin with?"

She took one long glance down at her own body, as if it was new and unfamiliar to her. "No, Jennifer was—she is not a lie. She is real. I am borrowing her body in the meanwhile."

Beside him, Sherlock tensed. "You don't naturally exist in a corporeal form that can interact with our world—like demons."

"No," she protested. She took a step forward, and John and Sherlock both took a step back in tandem. "Demons take without permission. We always ask for consent first."

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I doubt it's fully informed consent. Most people had no idea what's out there. Fine, why are you here? If you're done with your business, you'll leave Jenny be."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. Angels have true vessels, ones that best fit us. Anyone other than Jennifer would be an ill fit. And I am not here because I have a specific goal in mind. I..." she paused as she sought her next words. "Am on the lam as they say."

"Excuse me?"

She turned her head and looked almost sadly up at the night sky. But there were no stars visible in London's sky. "Heaven is at civil war, we angels are slaughtering each other in unheard of numbers. I simply want no part of it. I refuse to kill my brothers and sisters any longer."

"Shouldn’t God put a stop to something like that?" John scrunched his nose as he struggled to separate this new reality from his preconceptions.

Her face was full of pity when she faced them again. "God has been gone for many, many aeons now. He left us a long time ago, and no one has seen or heard from him since. Well, except for maybe Castiel. The Apocalypse was the last great plan that our Father left to us. We held out hope that we might be reunited with Him once it came to pass. But it never did. You humans have averted the inevitable."

Sherlock interrupted, "It's not inevitable if it was prevented. That goes against the very definition."

"Some have argued that—that God's will has changed. All of Heaven is now divided between two sides: those who follow the new herald, Castiel, and his tenant of free will, and those who follow Raphael and wish to bring about the Apocalypse. And neither side will abide the other."

"So let me see if I understand this correctly, all of Heaven is at war and you're what? Some sort of a conscientious objector, while Jenny and the rest of our world is your Switzerland?” John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How long do you plan to stay in Jenny?"

From the way her grimace tightened, John knew he wasn't going to like her answer.

"As long as I need to."

John remembered the defeated slump of Harry's shoulders. He remembered the way she sounded when she first came to him for help. "Unacceptable," he snapped.

"I don't need your permission, John Watson, nor did I need to explain any of this to you. I did so out of courtesy and respect to who you were in my vessel's life. The angels that pursue me now mean to either persuade me or kill me. In the end, they care little about what happens to Jennifer Warren."

He growled and clenched his fists. "Not if we force you out of her body."

She cocked her head to one side. "And how do you intend to do that? I am no mere demon. You cannot expect to simply chant a few verses in Latin and banish me. I am far stronger than anything you have ever faced before. Heed my warning, it is not a battle you would win."

Logically, John knew she was right. They knew next to nothing about angels. They hadn't even known they existed a few hours ago. John wasn't used to feeling helpless, not since that first encounter with the Vetala.

But he didn't necessarily fear her. Sure, he was wary of her power. Had she wanted to, she would have sent them away somewhere faraway or obliterated them entirely by now. Humans often ranked so low on the totem pole for supernatural beings, it was to be expected. But she hadn't.

So that must count for something. Would a plea for compassion work?

Without warning, she glanced sharply to the north, her body tightening like a drawn bow ready to fire. John's phone chimed from inside his pocket, but he had no intention of getting it now.

"You should answer that," she turned to stare pointedly at the pocket. "It's important."

"No, we're not done with this conversation."

"John," Sherlock insisted.

He stomped over to the other side of the roof to take the call. A glance over his shoulder found Sherlock and Sabriel engaged in quiet conversation. "Hello?"

A female no-nonsense voice responded from the other end. "Is this John Watson?"

"Speaking."

"This is the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. We are calling to let you know that your sister, Harriet Watson, has been admitted after a car accident."

John's heart clenched. "Is she okay? What happened?"

"I'm afraid your sister was drinking and driving when the accident occurred." It was difficult not to hear the extreme disapproval in her voice. "Thankfully, the occupants of the other vehicle suffered no serious injuries. I'm afraid that it's fairly more tricky with your sister's case. She's out of surgery and stable at the moment, but we will have to see how she fares through tonight. It is highly recommended that you come see her soon. We will need family present to help make medical decisions on her behalf if the need should arise."

"Yes, of course. I'm on my way, thank you." He ended the call abruptly and shoved the mobile back into his pocket.

He jogged back to where the other two stood and took Sherlock by the elbow. The contact offered only small and fleeting comfort. "Sherlock, we have to get back to Birmingham now. Harry's been in an accident. She's in the hospital."

"Hold on," Jenny said before she swooped forward to place a hand on each of their arms.

This time, London's bright skyline dissolved into a hospital room with a beeping electrocardiogram and the heavily bandaged occupant in the sole bed.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock managed to keep his dignity this time, even if his stomach did a silly flip against his diaphragm.

John made a small noise of distress upon seeing Harry's condition. "What the fuck were you thinking, Harry?"

The mournful note in John's voice tugged at Sherlock’s heartstrings. In that moment, he was so inexplicably angry with Harry.

But Sabriel approached Harriet's bedside before either of them could stop her. She tenderly brushed the hair out of her face and laid a palm flat against her forehead. She appeared much less frigid as she gazed at her host’s (ex-)girlfriend with something close to tenderness.

“Please forgive me, Harriet,” she whispered.

As if on cue, Harry’s eyelids fluttered open. She took several long blinks before finally focusing on the person above her. “Jenny? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me, love. Where does it hurt?”

Harriet groaned, “Everywhere.”

“Shhh, it will be okay.” Sabriel’s hand moved down Harriet’s body—a warm glow enveloped her hands where they came to settle on the upper abdomen.

John tried to step forward to intervene, but Sherlock thrust an arm forward to stop him and shook his head. "Just leave them."

This drew Harriet's attention, who craned her neck to catch sight of them. "You did it, you found Jenny." Her eyes were glazed from the morphine drip hooked up to her IV.

The light in Sabriel's hands and eyes subsided as quickly as it had appeared. "How do you feel now?"

"Tons better, what did you do?" Harriet flexed her fingers and looked back at the woman hovering over her. "Where did you go, Jenny? If you're in trouble, please let me help."

"You need not worry about me. Rest and take care of yourself, Harriet."

"How could I not worry, I love you." Harriet's words slurred the end of her sentence as she drifted off again.

Sabriel looked up to address them, but her hand never stopped smoothing back Harriet's hair. "I've helped along the worst of her injuries as much as I can. You needn't worry. She will make a full recovery, with no lasting side effects or even a scar." she paused. "I would have done more, but I fear that may draw unwanted attention."

Whether that attention would also come from Sabriel's pursuers went unsaid.

"But that won't be enough," John declared with a hardened glare and a clenched jaw. "You may have healed her body, but you're taking Jenny away from her, and that's going to trigger a relapse. You must know how long she's been sober for before tonight."

"One year, nine months, and thirteen days," Sabriel recited dutifully.

"There must be something else you can do. You owe Harry at least that much."

As long as Sabriel was in possession of Jennifer's body, she couldn't stay. John wouldn't allow her to put his sister in danger.

Sabriel gently roused Harriet from her sleep. "I have to go, love."

"No!" Harriet caught the other woman's sleeve and held on like her life depended on it. "Please, don't go. Tell me what I did wrong! I'll change! I'll do better. I promise. Please don't leave me," she pleaded.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, caught between the desire to see this through to the end and the desire to leave the room entirely.

For a moment, Sabriel seemed lost for words. She swallowed before saying, "Harriet, you've done nothing wrong. I swear by the Lord it's not your fault. I have to go so you'll be safe. I will come back when I can."

"Don't go. Whatever it is, we can face it together."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. Just remember, Jenn—I love you very much. That will never change."

"Then stay." Harriet's grip slackened as her consciousness began to wane again.

Sabriel leaned closer. Her next words were so quiet, like a whisper. "I have a very important question for you. If you could somehow forget me, would you want to? Would that make my leaving easier?"

The silence was an oppressive weight on their shoulders. For a moment, it appeared that Harriet had fallen back asleep. John opened his mouth to say more, but he was beaten by the quiet yet firm whisper from the bed.

"No, I wouldn't ever want to forget you, Jenny."

Sabriel wore a mystified expression, ungainly and unpracticed. She stepped back with her eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Harriet's chest. She wasn’t the only one caught by surprise though. That had not been the answer that Sherlock expected either. He hadn't expected the conviction in her voice either—not when she had been mewling with fatigue just sentences earlier. Whether or not Harriet knew she was being offered a genuine opportunity, she would not take it.

"Harriet? Love?" Sabriel prodded the injured woman gently, but she received no further response.  "She's made her choice and I will honor it. Have faith, John Watson. She is stronger than you think."

John's mouth twisted downward in a frown. Sherlock almost expected the man to argue or to try and override Harriet's decision. Instead, he finally approached the bed, flanking his sister's side protectively. Sabriel, on the other hand, moved away as he drew closer, each trading off proximity to Harriet with each step. The angel stopped as her back pressed up against the window on the other end of the room.

"Please watch over her," Jenny said, mired with remorse and regret.

John nodded.

As she prepared to leave, something Sherlock had filed away earlier popped up again. "Wait," he called and she stopped. "Was I right? About the symbol? About what it was meant to do?"

There was a 70% chance that she would admit nothing. If true, it was a weakness. But she had proven to be unexpectedly helpful so far, taking the body of Harriet's girlfriend notwithstanding. At the very least, she was more sympathetic than any of her kind they had met tonight.

Her eyes met his, and she nodded ever so slightly. Then she was gone.

-x-x-x-

Sherlock found John fighting with the beverage machine down the hall from Harry's room. He jabbed each button with enough force to shake the entire machine as he punched in his order.

"You know she stayed because of your sister?" Sherlock quietly asked.

John gave a small start and a loud curse. Sherlock probably should count himself lucky that he wasn't holding any hot coffee. He reached over the other man's shoulder and firmly pressed the final button that caused the machine to whir to life.

"Who do you mean?" After a contemplative pause, John quietly added, "Jenny? Sabriel?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, she could have left at any point. She had the ability to go anywhere in the world in the blink of an eye. But she stayed here in Birmingham. If not for your sister, then for what else?"

"That was not in her best interest."

The thought had been weighing on him for a while. Her actions had not been logical. "No, it wasn't."

John passed a cup to him (black coffee, two sugars), which he was grateful to take. He followed John over to some benches with overly stiff backs, where they sat in terrible hospital seats and drank terrible hospital coffee in silence.

"What the hell am I going to tell, Harry?" John mused loudly moments later. He glanced down at his healed left arm and flexed it several times.

"You could tell her the truth."

"Tell Harry the truth? God, I can't imagine a worse idea. She might take off and try and find Jen—Sabriel. Do you really think that's a wise choice?"

Having been on the receiving end of lies, Sherlock was still of two minds on the matter. Harriet was reckless, just like John could be. But she was also untempered and unfocused. He wet his lips before responding, "It's your decision. I'll back whatever story you choose to tell her. But I believe seeing Jennifer gave her the closure she desired, and she will wait."

"And you think Sabriel will really come back?"

Love was reckless and blind and illogical. It was (should be) a liability. "Stranger things have happened."

Wearing a contemplative expression, John hummed softly in agreement. “Guess that means the case is over.”

“Indeed.”

“You can go home first if you want. If you hurry now, you might manage to catch the last train out of here. I want to stay for a few more days to keep an eye on Harry.” John said as his head fell back and hit the wall behind him. "And I'll figure out what to say to her." He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John’s bereft hand resting in his lap to the tired lines of his face. "Maybe tomorrow. I'm in no particular rush to return to London at the moment."


End file.
